


Aphasia

by Fastern



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gen Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9626075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fastern/pseuds/Fastern
Summary: Your name is Keith. You don't bother to remember names because people have a way of disappearing from your life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom needs some genfic. I have a feeling I'll be writing more Voltron stuff in the future, and since this archive seems to be overly-saturated with shipfics *cough*KLANCE*cough*, I hereby solemnly swear that I will never write ships for Voltron—only genfics with lightly implied pairings.
> 
> That said, please don't get the wrong impression. I am actually a Klance fan. I am just tired of trying to comb through this archive trying to find a genfic to read.

You.

 

You don’t bother to remember names.

You grow up with one eye plastered to the eyepiece of a telescope, with your dad’s firm hand gripping your shoulder and an endless sense of awe at the speckled sky above. It’s  just  you and Dad.  Sometimes you ask about Mom, but Dad always smiles  mysteriously  and gives a non-answer.

“Your mom loved you so much,” Dad says. “She wished she could be here for you.”

“Where did she go?” you ask.

“She had to go help some people.”

“But where?" 

The smile flickers, and he says, “The stars.”

You’re six when you stop believing the excuse. You’re sixteen when you start believing it again.

 

You fight a lot.

You spend recesses at school drifting between daydreams, and when you’re shaken out of those daydreams, you fight. It’s an instinct. Dad says you got it from Mom. He says that you're a lot like Mom.  


There aren’t any pictures of Mom. Dad says that Mom didn’t like to have her picture taken.

(You'll later learn just how big of a lie that is.)

Sometimes you close your eyes at night and try to imagine what she looked like and all you come up with is a blank space and more questions than you can handle  .  So because you have so little of her, you memorise everything Dad says about her, and you hang onto her because it’s painful to not have her here—but it’s worse to forget.

Dad gives you the knife when you’re not even tall enough to reach the counter. The emblem glows and catches the starlight.

 

You’re at school when Dad dies.

You’ll spend the rest of your life wishing you’d been there.

 

You don’t bother to remember names.

It becomes an infinite blur of fosters moms and foster dads, except they’re not your mom and dad, because Dad is dead and who knows where Mom is.  You sit with your heart pounding and your senses on high alert on every second of every day of every week of every month of every year. Your emotions become so filtered that you can only feel extremes.

 

You meet Shiro.

You’re thirteen and trying to steal his bike. Trying being the key word. You’re trying to stir it to life when Shiro approaches from behind, and you don’t even know he’s there until he speaks.

“Do you even know how to ride that?”

Your heart catches in your throat and you try to think of where to run to, but somehow Shiro’s fixed stare keeps you in place  . It’s as if you’re  being looked  at for the first time since Dad died.

“I’ll figure it out,” you say  challengingly.

“Do you even have a helmet?” Shiro asks.

“Back off! You’re not my dad!”

“No, but you _are_ trying to steal my bike.”

You try to make a run for it, but Shiro is quicker and grabs you by the forearm. You fight and punch his chest.

“Let me go!” you scream.

“No,” Shiro says. “You’re lucky I’m not going to turn you into the police. Where are your parents?”

“I wasn’t gonna keep the damn bike,” you say, as if that justifies the attempted theft. “I was  just  gonna take it for a spin!”

“Yes, and crash it and kill yourself in the process. Tell me where your parents are.”

“You can’t tell my foster mom!” you exclaim. “If she finds out, I’ll get moved again!”

Shiro’s eyebrows meet in the centre of his forehead, but he doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t steal something that belongs to someone else.  Maybe  if you’re honest with your foster mom, you won’t get moved to another home."

You snort. “As if you would understand, twerp.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of posturing for such a small kid.”

“I am _not_ a kid.”

You stop fighting for what feels like the first time in your life.  Perhaps  Shiro senses that you’re not going to run, because he lets go of your arm. He looks at the bike, then his eyes travel back to you again.

Shiro smiles. It reminds you of your dad. “I have a spare helmet. Want me to take you for a ride?”

 

You remember Shiro’s name.

“Why Shiro?” you ask. “Why not Takashi?”

"Back home in Japan, people who aren't close friends call each other by their family name," Shiro says. "My name just got shorten to Shiro. It kind of carried over when I got accepted into the Garrison."

“The Garrison?”

“The Galaxy Garrison. It’s where I go to school.”

You stay quiet and think about the stars.

 

 

It takes two years of relentless study, but you win a scholarship to attend the Garrison. Shiro drapes an arm over your shoulder and gives you his bike as a congratulatory present.

“Just  remember to wear a helmet,” he urges.

(You don’t.)

 

You _love_ the Garrison.

(Most of the time. You hate  being told  what to do. Shiro has to tell you to behave yourself.)

You love the classes about astrophysics, constellations, and extra-solar planets. You love the physical training pushing you to your absolute limit. You love the history lessons chronicling mankind’s foray into the great unknown. It’s the unknown that excites you the most. Every day you’re a little closer to the stars you once looked at as a child.

You never kept photographs, but you start keeping them now: of Dad, of you and Shiro, of the sun as it blossoms over the Arizona horizon. You’re still missing Mom, but that’s become such a certainty in your life that you  barely  pay that any mind.

(You still have the knife.)

 

You don’t bother to remember names—not from the Garrison, at least. They’re  just  passing faces that will soon be gone from you life, while you drift, drift away.

You watch the Kerberos mission take off and yearn for an adventure into the stars of your own.

Shiro says he’ll be back in time for your graduation.

(He won’t.)

 

 

It ends.

 

 

Your roommate watches  pensively  as you throw your belongings into a duffel bag. You want to be angry. You want to be angry at your roommate, for judging you in silence. You want to be angry at your instructors, for kicking you out. You want to be angry at Shiro, for leaving  just  like everyone else in your life.

 

 

Mostly  you’re  just  angry at yourself.

The guards escort you to the exit. The door slams behind you along with your future and everything you wanted to achieve.

You’re underage and, without a guardian, sent to a group home.  You run away the next morning and hole up in Dad’s old cabin, the place where you used to spent summers and weekends watching the stars and looking for Mom. You could resume the search, you think. You could aim for the stars and higher.

You go looking for something else instead.

 

You don’t bother to remember names.

Then  suddenly  you have to remember five.

 

You sit beside Hunk in the Castle’s kitchen. You didn’t invite him to a midnight snack. He invited himself.  You’re not quite sure why he’s sitting so close when there’s more than enough room to sit at comfortable distances from each other.

“I’m not used to this much consistency in my life,” you admit after a great deal of prodding on his part.

"Wow,” Hunk drawls. “You actually think that fighting an evil alien empire is consistent. What exactly was your life like back on Earth? Were you, like—I dunno, Batman?”

“Bat...man?” you repeat.

“Y’know, dresses like a bat, fights crime, has a dark and tragic past?”

You have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Oh my God, do you even know who Batman is?!”

 

You sometimes think that Lance is actually not all that bad.  Maybe  he gets a bit of a bad rep being a clown, but he’s not that bad. Lance is actually  really,  really  great.

Actually, he’s  probably  the best friend to have around when you’re doing undercover work at an alien bar and he dares you to try an alien beverage. The drink is electric blue and tastes like an intense energy drink filled with far too much caffeine. You’re lucky it doesn’t kill you, but it does have the same effect that ten cans of beer would have. Lance is really a great friend for making you drink, because you haven't felt this uninhibited before and it's a nice change.

Lance has your arm over his shoulder and doesn’t even complain when you vomit all over his shoes.  Shiro will  probably  be angry at the two of you for botching the mission, but in your drunken haze, you don’t  really  think too much about it.

“You know what?” you slur, vision blurring.“You’re not all that bad sometimes.”

“Okay, you’ve definitely had too much,” says Lance as he deposits you on your bed.

“C’mon, I am not drunk.” You wobble back up to your feet. Lance grabs your shoulders and pushes you back down. “Let’s go fight someone!”

“No, it’s time to go to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Keith, I have three younger siblings. I can do this all night. Now go to bed or I’ll break out a bedtime story.”

Lance pulls off your boots and  suddenly  your bed is a tempting place to rest for a bit. You lie down and don’t protest when Lance tucks you in.

“Thanks, Dad,” you murmur.

Lance is quiet.

 

“Well, your hand looks fine now.”

You’ve  just  gotten back from facing the Druid, the one that burnt your hand.  There is still a tingling sensation from where the Quintessence splashed on it and there is no trace of the wound.  Pidge looks up at you and she is taut with curiosity, the kind of Pidge-thinking expression you’ve come to expect from her whenever she’s wrapped up in a new idea.

“I wish I had a sample of this Quintessence stuff,” she says. “Don’t suppose you saved me one, did you?”

“I was too busy fighting for my life,” you drawl.

“Figures. Although  maybe  if you hadn’t run off on your own this wouldn’t have happened and I could have a Quintessence sample.”

“Shiro already lectured me about that, so you don’t have to bother.”

“I  just  worry about you sometimes. If you keep running amok like a goddamn maniac, it’s gonna get you killed.”

You don’t answer that.

Pidge ruffles your hair. “It’s a good thing we’re here to keep an eye on you. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d get into otherwise.”

 

You wake up in the night.

The rooms on the Castle are claustrophobic and alien. You’re is okay with that. After the Garrison, if you couldn’t sleep at Dad’s shack, you would curl up in an alley, or sometimes find a cave to hide in.  You’ve woken up to police prodding at you or homeless people rummaging through your belongings, so you’re used to unfamiliar sights  .

Waking up to a moustache,  however, is new.

So you unleash a bloodcurdling scream you’re sure they can hear all the way on Earth.

Coran pushes the timer on his ticker. “Three point eight vargas. That’s the shortest sleep cycle yet!”

“What the _hell_ are you doing in here?!” you shriek, trying to control your racing heart.

“Timing human sleep patterns,” Coran says. “You’re  unusually  restless during your sleep cycle.  Lance is far more peaceful, though he does wear this interesting face paint. Maybe  you’d have a more fulfilling rest if you wore face paint. Have you tried face paint?”

(You lock your door after that.)

 

You wish you could handle loss with the same level of subtle grace and acceptance as Allura does. She stands  idly  before the gates of hell and does so with a modest upturn of the lips. You hold onto the belief that nothing can faze her when this is hardly the case.

You have something in common.

“You miss your dad,” you say to her. It’s a statement, not a question.

She smiles  sadly. “Every day.”

“Same.” He pauses. “I mean, I miss _my_ dad. I never met _your_ dad.”

“Thank you," Allura nods. She hesitates, and then says, "Can you tell me about your father?”

 

(He does. There’s nothing quite like two orphans swapping stories.)

 

You don’t bother to remember names.

Then you had to remember five and it got worse and worse until you realized that something terrible had happened. You had started to _care._ You get on edge and then something breaks inside of you when you meet the Blade of Marmora, and your heart  just  shatters a little more when Dad stands before you and says that Mom will be there soon.

Mom can explain everything.

_Mom._

Suddenly  your life is a fabrication. Nothing is the way you thought it would be.

You tell Dad the one thing you never got to say to him. You tell him goodbye and go through the door.

And you.

You.

Standing in the illusion.

 

Standing in the middle of the cabin.

 

 

 

Standing with the visage of Dad before you.

 

 

 

 

Standing there...

 

 

 

 

You realize that something terrible has happened.

You’re terrified of being alone again.

 

 

The others don’t notice.

Shiro does. Shiro always notices and you hate it.

“Is this about your dad?” Shiro asks.

“No,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “My dad never bothered to mention that I was half-alien. Not something that I needed to know,  really. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Maybe  he died before he got the chance to tell you.”

“Well, how would you know? You never met him.”

“Keith, stop trying to push me away.”

“I’m not trying to do anything! It’s not my fault people won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry,” you deny. “This is  just  stupid.”

“What’s stupid? Having friends who care enough to try to talk to you when you're clearly upset?”

“I’ve spent my whole goddamn life not needing friends. Why would I need them now?”

“So what does that make us?”

“Oh, what makes you think you’re any better than they are?” you snap before you’re able to stop yourself. “You came, and then you left  just  like everybody else. It'll happen again. This isn’t gonna last.  Maybe  it won’t happen today or tomorrow, but  maybe  a few months or years down the line this is all going to end. But it’s not like I’m afraid of being alone. I’m used to it, trust me.”

“I know you are, and that’s what scares me.”

“I am not your responsibility, Shiro. I can take care of myself.”

You fold your arms and pull your legs up onto your bed and you turn away from Shiro like a stubborn child.

“I was doing  just  fine on my own before you all showed up and ruined everything,” you say.

“Keith—”

“Shut up,” you say. Your pride stings and so do your eyes, but goddammit all, you’re not about to cry in front of Shiro like an infant. “This is going to end soon and it’s all going to go to hell.”

“Well, with that attitude it might,” Shiro says with an edge of bitterness.

“This is all going to end,” you say. A mantra you’re hoping will keep you together but is actually splitting you apart. “It’s all going to end soon. Don’t you dare try to pretend that it won’t end up like that.”

Shiro pulls you into his arms, and at first you try to fight, but soon you give up the battle to maintain your composure. He doesn’t deny that it’ll all end in tragedy, but in the present, you hold onto him  tightly  and pray, pray, _pray_ that you’re wrong.

 

You pray right up until the moment you enter the Black Lion and Shiro’s chair is empty, and your first thought is that this is the end you’ve been dreading.

 

 

You.

(It’s always been about you.)

 

 

You don’t bother to remember names.


End file.
